


Parable

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, Filthy, One Shot, Pegging, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season/Series 02, Smut, Strap-Ons, happy bithday you filthy meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-14 00:02:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13581765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: When you hear the word, parable, you expect the moral of the story. A lesson to be taught. An allegory to be committed to memory, as reiterated by Christ in the Gospels. Expecting a lesson, Vera follows Joan into the medical wing.





	Parable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheLexFiles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLexFiles/gifts).



> This is a gift for my dear friend, Lexie. Eons ago, we entertained the notion of there being a filthy smut scene between Joan and Vera that paralleled Jack and Nurse Lee Radcliffe in S5. I decided to take advantage of the fact by setting the story in the era of Governor Joan. 
> 
> Happy Birthday, Lexie. You're such a wonderful friend. You inspire me constantly. Not only do we bemoan about grad school together, but we goad one another on as a means of positive reinforcement. I wish you nothing but the best, because you deserve it!
> 
> I hope you enjoy the fic!

From dusk 'til dawn, Deputy will accompany Governor. An unearthly quietude graces Wentworth's ghastly, clammy halls. Mentor and pupil embark on a purposeful march down the bleak corridor. Shadows on the wall reflect meager splinters left behind or the projection of branches in a dead silent forest, left to ruin and rot alike. Their heels echo in unison, reminiscent of a cave that has no beginning and no end.

A black suit with dark eyes carries herself with as much pride as an ancient God. There's a deathless quality to Joan Ferguson. Nothing exposes that tar black soul. Her gait remains calm, purposeful. Stubbornly, Miss Vera Bennett attempts to act as a mirror. She reflects what she admires. She wears a mask, but it's terribly wrong. The reflection she dons is not her own.

At last, in perfect quietude, they arrive at their destination. A similar quietude breaches the medical unit. Brooding with intent, Miss Ferguson has arranged this rendezvous. A fever consumes through her penetrating, voyeuristic stare. Serpents possess infinite knowledge. They know what makes quiet mice tick.

“Leave us,” Joan commands of lawful Nurse Rose.

Rose opens and clothes her mouth, her protest cut off by a sharp flick of Joan's wrist. On the wall, the clock ticks, ticks, ticks. It marks the growing distance between them. The clinical sterility of the room provides some comfort. Here, Joan clasps her hands in front of herself. The curtain sweeps behind them along with the door.

She prefers the sterility of this place – the smell of antiseptic and bleach washing away all things unclean.

An unholy silence fills this space until discomfort compels her Deputy to interrupt.

“Why are we here?”

Confusion floods Deputy Governor Bennett's plain, diminutive features. Her button nose scrunches. Her eyes flit to the lifeless, empty cot. Tonight, the medical ward is silent. No injured inmates grace this room. In bewilderment, her brows come together.

“Think, Vera. Look **closer** ,” she drawls. Each word flows like vintage wine, freshly uncorked, and ungodly sanguine. The Governor steps forward, looming behind her petite colleague. Her shadow rakes over her.

“There’s no body,” the little lamb observes. Her head meanders from left to right. For once, no quiver controls the inflections of her speech. It's the most self-assured she's been since their first encounter. “And the sheets are freshly pressed. It’s clean.”

The naive have the tendency to worship dusty deeds. An eternal fire brews within the Devil's eyes. Patiently, Ferguson bides her time. This evening, no one will dare to interrupt them. She's made sure of the fact, having scrutinized the rotations well in advance.

“How asTuTe,” Joan dryly remarks. Honestly, how daft her underling could be at times! The cuff of her sleeve hitches upward. It reveals a glimpse of the wristwatch secured in place.

Vera nearly expects the pitchfork of condemnation. No longer is she the nervous sort to wince at the metaphorical pitchfork. Fear of the unknown thunders against her bird-cage chest. Gradually, the Devil closes in.

Craning her neck, Joan marvels at the tightened bun fastened to Vera’s scalp. She taught her that. There’s a surge of pride along with a fresh spark of arousal. A compulsion to rectify suits her just fine. From the confines of her pockets, she procures her tailored leather gloves. They snap on. Like lightning, they crackle.

“For hiding contraband, you face a grave offense, Vera.”

Her voice acts as a distant murmur, a dull rumble of thunder rolling across the wasteland. Mercilessly, she toys with her squirming prey.

Visibly, Vera shifts in place. From foot to foot, she adjusts the way she carries her weight. Her arms wrench behind her back. One hand encompasses her frail, breakable wrist. Ever composed, Joan fights the compulsion to smirk.

“Pardon?” She inquires in response, her tone softer than a freshly plucked feather making its impious descent.

Authoritative figures bend and twist the law to do their bidding. Now, the Governor seals her distance. Asserts her dominance. Closes in to make her point known – to exchange this Pandora's Box of a secret between them.

“You trust me, don’t you?” Joan inquires.

Ever the ruler and the killer, a ghost of a smirk graces her glossy lips. A hand tugs at her deputy's newly tightened bun, wrenching Vera’s head back with a gasp.

“Y-yes” is a faint utterance, a shot in the unforgiving dark.

The wolfish grin widens.

“You refuse to _resisT_. Typical.”

She clicks her T’s.

Joan brushes her thickened fingers against her mouth. There's no reluctance. No defiance. Dutiful Vera takes her in. She swirls her tongue along the leather encasing. Up and down, round and round. From behind, she feels the Devil's presence threaten to suffocate. The Governor presses against her, akin to a black cat that's crossed her bloody path. Albeit muffled, she emits a low moan.

With an audible pop, swollen lips purse. Leather leaves her mouse. Vera attempts to glance over her shoulder, but the palm of Joan's hand rests in between her shoulder blades despite their mutual standing.

“Fuck me.”

It isn’t a plea, but a **demand**. In her desperation, slender hands move to her uniform. Vera begins to embark on a state of undress. She removes her blazer and moves for the rest. Smugly, Joan celebrates her success. There’s no language left to speak save for one of craving.

“Leave it on,” Ferguson interrupts with the husky tenor of her voice.

Equal parts incredulous as she is quizzical, she keeps the bra off. Lets the blouse back on to graze her bare breasts. The vestige of her uniform scatters about her feet. Exposed, she shivers. A deep ache stirs in her cunt along with the desperate butterflies. The bright, fluorescent lights render her dizzy. Make her high from the cheap thrill of what's to come.

Joan of Arc’s armor comes in the former of her gleaming badge. Like a loaded gun, a zipper sounds off. Showing no mercy, she’s packing. That artificial cock springs free.

“Get it weT,” she commands. “Work for it.”

Vera blinks. She swallows. Her mouth runs dry. As if this is communion, confession, whatever holy act turned depraved, she falls to her knees which promise to bruise. Her pleated skirt rises up her thighs. Runs and tears riddle her nylons, but she doesn't care. Her only aim is to please. To service. To impress the God she bows before.

“Do as I say. Look at me.”

Leather creases. God looms from above.

Again, Joan feels that telltale spark of arousal. That twitch in her clit, that insatiable hunger in her belly.

Soft, inviting lips graze the tip. Her cheeks hollow. Vera looks up with a muffled “mm?” Merciless Joan, like the Old Testament God, bucks her hips to force her deeper into her mouth. Shallow simply won't suffice. She grabs for her head, knotting her fingers into the bun that now vows to come undone.

The little mouse has a bite to her. She nips at the pale junction of Joan’s thigh. Resilience is awarded by a painful seizure of the jaw. Her gloved thumb and forefinger squeeze. Brutality remains hindered by a well-tailored suit.

From the imposed violence, Vera moans. She gasps as the Governor shoves her aside. Discards her like an ill-fated marionette. She rubs her aching jaw, her throbbing throat, until she's pulled to her feet. Off-balance, she teeters. Her spine presses against the cot. Heated, she removes her blouse, well-aware of the laser beam stare that focuses on her lithe body.

The Governor stops her. A cease of action comes in the guise of an extended forearm and a palm facing her eager pupil. Button by button, she unfastens her blazer and rolls up the shirt sleeves.

“Wait,” Vera starts.

Actions speak louder than her timid words do. She reaches for the Governor’s blazer. At the offense, Joan’s lip twitches. Vera’s blind to the sporadic spasm that assaults the Governor’s mouth.

Coquettishly, her brazen mouse drapes the jacket over herself. The lapels scratch her breasts. They tease her nipples. From such a simple touch, she groans. Wool and polyester elicit such a bittersweet friction. In this Dyad relationship, the slave overrules the master. To humor her, Joan lets her wear the crowns.

Joan's jacket nearly swallows her like Jonah in the belly of the whale, but Vera finds her resolve. Miss Ferguson spins her around and pushes over the medical bed. At the offense, the starched sheets slither. One by one, the remainder of her layers come off.

Beige nylons are torn from her shapely legs, her panties violently tugged off to reveal her wetness. In anticipation, she whimpers. Gloved hands push up her skirt. Eagerly, she parts her legs further.

An allure exists in being taken this way. The hardened tip nudges against her damp slit. Bit by bit, Ferguson enters her and _fuck_ , she's tighter than she's ever been. Her forehead hits the stiff, uncomfortably bed. She feels her deep inside.

With every thrust, the gilded crowns dance. Her ass claps which Joan squeezes in silent appreciation. A smack reddens the flesh. One cheek. Then, the other. Their bodies fit together like devils thrashing about in the Inferno. The rhythm increases. Faster, harder, their coupling could set the damn bed on fire.

At some point, Joan holds her up by the waist. Fucks her with her torso secured to the cot. Impaled on her thickness, Vera rides the length. Each frenzied movement pushes against Joan, maintaining that spark of arousal.

Friction elicited, skin slaps against skin. Angular, bony hips hit the bed. White sheets writhe beneath Vera’s scrambling touch. The cot rocks in tandem with the ferocity of their thrusts.

There exists no slow burn, only a rough fuck.

Joan's thrusts are precise. She knows where to angle her hips and how to make Vera toss her head back, mewling to a God that doesn’t care or mind. She seizes hold of Vera’s waist to pull her closer, closer still.

Louder, her mouse becomes. Unabashed, unashamed moans fall from her chapped, parted lips. In reciprocation, a strong bicep curls. Her hand reaches for the Governor's hip to lure her deeper, to urge her to _fuck_ her properly.

“O-oh, God. O-oh!” She's a broken record, a lost cause.

It feels too good. It feels like champagne bubbling over. It feels like dying.

“Quiet!” Ferguson combats the cacophony of desperate moans. A leather-clad palm clamps over her mouth in an attempt to muffle her wanton cries.

Joan snarls as she listens to the frantic fluttering pulse of Vera. She leans in, lips to her jugular so she can feel the haphazard drumming of her heartlines.

The exertion coaxes out a few grunts, threatening a loss of composure. Sweat collects in between her heaving breasts.

Drilling over and over again, Vera feels Joan deep inside. The wool of the Governor's blazer scratches her breasts. Issues harsh, red streaks that lay a brand of belonging. Hushed sounds of pleasure intensify. They writhe in sync.

“I'm _close_ ,” Vera attempts to bargain, to appeal to imperfect logic against the glove that muffles her. It's a hopeless, pathetic whine, that's a testament to who she used to be. “Don't-- don't come inside me,” she begs, lost to the sensations and unable to appeal to reason.

Against her shoulder blade, Joan smirks. There, she bites down through the fabric. Leaves an ugly bruise that will linger for days along with the unnatural soreness.

In return, she nibbles on leather. Whimpers around the fingers that breach her mouth. Joan's clothed chest presses against her foolish, fragile spine. She feels the buttons of her blouse leave an imprint, much like the entirety of her flawed design.

Possession compels the Governor to pull her Deputy closer. That vise-like grip keeps her entrapped. She squirms, albeit only for display. The heel of her palm grazes her nape. Her cheek presses into the cot. She claws at the sides, her chest pushed over the bed.

Praise follows in pursuit.

“Good, good girl... Let go for me,” she issues her final demand, low and sultry.

A mess between her legs, her climax is as violent as this carnal delight. Without warning, she comes. A final cry is lost to the quietude of the witching hour. Akin to a doll, Vera collapses. Falls onto the bed, her mouth agape, her cheek rubbing against the distorted sheets. From the finality, her cunt throbs. Her eyes become hazy – out of focus, out of sight, out of mind.

But she swears, _swears_ , she sees the Devil's horns looming over her past the shadow of Joan's pristine bun.

 


End file.
